


Definitely not her

by ChocoNut



Series: Jaime's awkward problems [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Jaime is Horny, Missing Scene, Season 3, Unresolved Sexual Tension, awkward boner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 04:47:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21332509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: The first time Jaime sees Brienne in the "hideous" pink dress, he explodes. In every sense.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Jaime's awkward problems [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537828
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88





	Definitely not her

**Author's Note:**

> Note : This is show!Brienne who looks absolutely gorgeous in that dress, and not poor book!Brienne.

“We need to hurry,” urged Jaime, impatient to negotiate terms of his release with Roose Bolton, “so why don’t you get dressed quickly so we can get the hell out of here--” 

“There’s no need to shout,” she grunted from behind him, “I’m almost done, though I wish I wouldn't have had to wear this.”

He wheeled around, curious as soon as she grumbled about her clothes. His eyes fixed on her, he was still as a tree, his feet grounded and his lips sewn shut when he took in the sight in front of him. A rare occurrence, it was, for him to be groping in the dark for words, but off late, it seemed to be happening more often than in all the years of his life, the wench, in every such instance, the reason behind his discomfort. 

A lady, he’d barely looked upon her as, nor would he today, not even when she’d been forced into a feminine monstrosity that fit her as flawlessly as if it had been tailored to her measurements. With a sigh that he could barely suppress, he tried to find her some scathing taunts, but none came to mind, and all he could do was stand there speechless, gawking like a squire who’d never been with a woman before.

No insults. No taunts. Not even mildly sour remarks.

Nothing.

_ What the hell is wrong with me? _

He wanted to get out of her sight, to get her out of his mind, but unbidden, his eyes set out on a journey along her form, absorbing every part of her disproportionate body. 

Her eyes, as usual, never failed to arrest his gaze, forcing him to stay on them for several seconds longer than necessary. Panic struck, he managed to break free of their hold on him, worried that another moment in their custody might send him spiraling to the depths of those pools.

_ I don’t care about her eyes. _

Her lips, thicker than he’d seen on any of her sex, were a curse the gods had punished her with. But before he could satisfy himself with snide mental remarks to justify his opinion, his reckless mind took over, unleashing a stream of dangerous visions upon him - each of them elaborately delightful, and all of them ending with him kissing her passionately. A groan, he had to swallow, when he pictured her lips twitch and struggle beneath his, and the taste of her, he could sense in his mind’s eye, his tongue challenging hers to a duel he itched to win.

_ I can’t stand her lips. _

Agitated, he tried to tear his gaze away, only to be attracted to her neck, instead, counting her freckles, relishing how unevenly patchy she was. More spots than skin, he fussily dismissed, although, it might not be that unpleasant to find out what that pale column of throat tasted like. Another burst of wanton thoughts emerged, throwing him into a bottomless ocean of doom, his head a home to wild daydreams that involved sucking and nibbling her, his teeth deep into her well-defined collarbones, leaving marks all over, every nerve in his body tingling when he pictured her eyes darkening in pleasure when he took to feasting on her.

_ Her neck is the worst thing I’ve ever seen. _

In a woeful state, he was, with no sources of distraction to pull him out of this strange predicament. More such dangers, he realized, he was surrounded by, when heated thoughts and hidden desires that had, until now, lurked around the corners of his turbulent mind, came out in the open to attack him. 

Before he could stop it, his roving gaze, armed with a free will of its own, found its destination in her chest. 

Breasts, she did possess, like he’d witnessed at the bath that night, meager, though, and far too inadequate for a wench her size. That didn’t, however, deter him away from them, his mouth hanging dry when he followed the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. His pants sprang to life when he pictured himself ripping away the worn-out fabric that held her breasts in place, the uncontrollable development in his groin blowing to proportions he hadn’t expected when he saw himself sucking the hell out of those hard pink teats, leaving them sore and begging for more.

_ Gods, not her hideous breasts! Not in all the seven hells! _

Her misshapen waist, far from what a woman’s ought to be, did nothing to entice him, and fortunately, the tortuous spell was broken, his confusion cleared, at last.

_ I hate every bit of her, _ he concluded, the thought finally bringing him solace _ . _

His relief, however, was short lived, for a mischievous voice within him nudged him to take a step further, tempting him to wrap his arms around her, to let his hardness press against her hips, to push into her moist folds, to make her feel like a woman--

“I asked you something,” came her irate voice, dragging him out of his reverie, “so if you’d be kind enough to answer me--”

“I drifted away,” he said hastily, glad that his voice bore no hint of his stormy mental state. Only now did it occur to him that she’d probably been speaking to him for quite a while. “Must be something Qyburn gave me. Medicines can have that effect, at times,” he lied, spitting out the first excuse that came to his mind.

“You were staring at me,” she said, her cheeks now matching her dress, and that made him stare further.

The woman could blush, and to his utter distress, he was beginning to enjoy it. 

Not to mention her voice. And the tone she took with him.

The underlying note of seductive command in it that never failed to hit him hard in the pit of his stomach. A maiden, she was, untouched and inexperienced, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she took the lead in bed, turning it into a battlefield and their fucking a damned sparring match, her delicious voice spouting out instructions, telling him _ exactly _how she wanted to be touched and what she truly desired--

“I said _ stop staring _,” she repeated, red as a tomato. “I know I’m an eyesore, you’ve told me that a hundred times--”

“This dress,” he breathed, unable to contain himself anymore, “it’s--”

“Terrible,” she concluded, her eyes the sharpest daggers he’d been stabbed with. “I’m aware of that.”

“Good,” he retorted, knowing not what else to say, wishing away the troublesome images that refused to leave his head.

“I hate it myself,” she added, looking down at herself in disgust as she pulled up the front of the gown over her breasts, “so you don’t have to--”

“I didn’t,” he jumped to defend himself before she could hurl accusations at him. His eyes following the hands that fought hard to cover her modesty, he unabashedly wished she wouldn’t expend such efforts on an impossible endeavor as this.

She threw him a reproachful look. “You were about to,” she guessed, though not entirely accurate in her assumption, “had I not cut in. Isn't criticism what you revel in? Mocking me, taking pleasure in finding faults with everything I am, your words, your looks of revulsion, your--”

She plowed on, and again, Jaime was barely listening, his attention, his mind and his eyes captured by a stray lock of hair snaking down her forehead. An untidy bunch of sandy blonde curls it was, as awful as the rest of her, but something about it, something in the way it kissed her skin, lazily brushing against it, was oddly--_ distracting. _

“Stay still,” he whispered, then advanced. So close, he now was to her, that he could count her fucking freckles.

“What--” she began to object, but giving her no chance to interrupt nor resist, he reached out to touch her, pushing away the annoying curls, his fingertips lingering on her skin a little longer than necessary. 

She said nothing, did nothing to stop him, just fixed him with a quizzical look.

Embarrassed, he withdrew his hand immediately. “It--” he paused for a moment, contemplating ways to best explain his unsolicited gesture. “It was making you look uglier,” he said, hoping it was sour enough an insult to convince her. “Like this dress,” he added, for better effect.

Her face fell, telling him he’d succeeded, and for some inexplicable reason, the hurt in her eyes pinched him, making him regret his words.

“Let’s go,” she murmured, her voice flat. “We shouldn’t keep our hosts waiting.”

“Wench,” he called out, when she was at the door, and she twirled to meet his eyes, her movement so ladylike that it took him by surprise. “Next time, try blue instead of pink,” he said, picturing her in the colour of her eyes. “Might make you look slightly better.”

A spark of brightness appeared in her eyes, the corners of her lips twitching in what could be construed as a smile, but a brief moment was all her pleasant reaction lasted, the usual severe expression returning to her features when she demanded, “Was that supposed to be another insult?”

“A suggestion,” he corrected her, returning the rare reluctant smile she’d graced him with. 

_ A compliment too, _ his inner voice appended. Images of the wench dressed in blue sprouted in his head, his mind, their breeding ground as they ominously multiplied, and _ him _, theirs to torment.

_ Not her, _ he assured himself as he followed her out of the door, wondering what the future had in store for the rest of their eventful journey.

_ Definitely not her. _


End file.
